


Difficult Loves

by jiah



Category: Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Crime, Dark passions, Darkness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Opium, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Punishment, Rivalry, Trauma, Violence against women, oniwabanshu - Freeform, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiah/pseuds/jiah
Summary: A set of one-shots about fraught relationships and complex feelings in the Rurouni Kenshin universe -- some love, some love of hatred, some beyond words.
Relationships: Himura Kenshin/Kamiya Kaoru, Himura Kenshin/Makimachi Misao, Himura Kenshin/Saitou Hajime, Kamiya Kaoru/Sagara Sanosuke, Makimachi Misao/Shinomori Aoshi, Sagara Sanosuke/Takani Megumi, Shinomori Aoshi/Takani Megumi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 29





	1. That Twisted Feeling (Aoshi and Megumi)

**Author's Note:**

> The title, "Difficult Loves" is from the short story collection of the same name by Italo Calvino.  
> "Love" is probably the wrong word for these stories. They are strong feelings that the characters have to grapple with, faced with intense situations. Feelings they want to hide, feelings that are probably wrong, feelings they won't admit to themselves, feelings that stir the darkness within, or betray a vulnerability. Archive warnings only apply to some of them.  
> For now, the stories are:  
> 1\. Aoshi and Megumi [warnings apply]  
> 2\. Sanosuke and Kaoru  
> 3\. Saitou and Kenshin  
> 4\. Hannya and Aoshi  
> [More to be added]
> 
> Rurouni Kenshin and its characters belong to the creators. I'm just a fan who loves playing in the universe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megumi's first meeting with the Okashira of the Oniwabanshu, the chilling group of former spies who keep her captive for Takeda Kanryu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've included trigger warnings for the first story, though the violence is not actually that graphic, and the rape is only mentioned as a possibility. Still, I thought better err on the side of caution. I'm new at this.

The first time she saw the Oniwabanshu Okashira, he dealt her a backhanded blow that split her lip. 

Takani Megumi knew she had no option but to follow Kanryu’s commands. She was shrewd enough to put survival above idealism, but she was also shrewd enough not to relax her guard for a second, and to use her quiet guile to figure out everything she could about Kanryu’s mansion and his guards. Since childhood, she had been called a sly fox, but she didn’t care. It was what helped her live this long. And she thought she nearly had it all figured out — which guard was likely to be sloppy, who had aches in their joints that slowed them down, which exits were less heavily guarded. Even the pattern of rotation the guards followed, so intricate she knew the Oniwabanshu had had a hand in designing it. The four spies — she shuddered inwardly every time one of them materialised in a corner when she least expected to see them. They watched her constantly — when she slept, when she took a bath, even when she used the toilet. And yet she never felt a flicker of interest from them, let alone lust. She was just a target to them. To watch and guard, for now. To kill when ordered to. 

A pity, thought Megumi. She could have used lust. She had used it against the guards, speeding up their heartbeats and confusing them with a flutter of her eyelashes. Most of the time it worked, sometimes it earned her a slap or two. Megumi had had a long time to hone this particular skill. It, too, was what had kept her alive. 

But mostly, she suspected, it was the Oniwabanshu. Nobody dared touch her while they shadowed her. It was a dubious kind of safety, but it was better than nothing. And Megumi knew that, though they handled her roughly while pulling her from her room and shoving her into Kanryu’s whenever he wanted those inane meetings, they were barely using a fraction of their strength against her. 

She knew they wouldn’t protect her, either, but for their orders. Once, early in her interactions with them, she had made the mistake of trying to coax information from Shikijou, who seemed the most human of the four. He had just stared at her until she began to feel uncomfortable. Losing her patience, she had finally shouted at him, asking why he didn’t just kill her. 

“That is not what I was ordered,” he replied, crossing his arms. 

“Yes, of course,” she had fumed, goading him on, hoping he would be provoked enough to end her misery. “You’re Kanryu’s lapdog. You’ll kill me when he says so.” 

“No,” he had said calmly. “The Oniwabanshu takes orders only from the Okashira.” 

That had brought her up short. She had never seen this shadowy Okashira. Hell, she barely saw the four spies lurking in plain sight around her lodgings. She wondered what kind of a man would have fallen far enough, not just to hire himself out as a thug to someone like Kanryu, but also to make his minions do all the dirty work. Her nostrils flared, and the spy in front of her noticed. He was considerably colder to her after that — which was not saying much. And that was how Megumi had fumbled her plan of influencing the Oniwabanshu even before she had begun. 

And then one day, in Kanryu’s office, she had somehow mustered the courage to tell him no when he proposed making a drug that was ten times more dangerous — and so much more profitable, no doubt — than the opium she was by now used to making. 

Kanryu had gaped at her, unable to believe that she had actually denied him something. He looked around. His guards and assistants looked as nonplussed as he did. They even looked nervous, as if they didn’t know what their psycho employer would do when refused. Only the four Oniwabanshu remained silent and still as ever. 

“M-Megumi,” Kanryu had stammered after a few seconds. “I was not offering you a choice.” 

“Nevertheless, I refuse.” She raised her chin, trying not to show how her heart was pounding. She had no idea what the psycho would do either. But she was tired, so tired of surviving like this. Her only hope was to anger Kanryu to the point where he would kill her. 

Kanryu was silent for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair and chuckled. Megumi’s heart clenched. She didn’t like this at all. But she really had no choice but to go through with it. 

Kanryu straightened, still smiling. “Oh, Megumi, Megumi, you’re so naughty today,” He said. There was a slightly maniacal glint in his eye. “I think you’ll have to be punished.” 

The gentleness of his tone was her warning. She had an idea what kind of punishment he had in store for her. Something painful, public, and basely humiliating. She didn’t need much imagination to figure it out. So this is the part where I get raped, a cold, rational part of her mind thought, even as her treacherous pulse raced. And this is the part where I struggle so hard that he really has to kill me. Possibly after hurting me in every way he can. But then it’ll stop. 

Kanryu rose from his chair and came slowly around his desk, languidly taking off his coat. 

“You guys,” he called out to the Oniwabanshu. “Hold her down.” 

The spies didn’t move. 

A muscle twitched in Kanryu’s cheek. This was escalating. “You bastards. You work for me. You do as I say. Hold her down.” 

He started rolling up his sleeves. 

“We don’t work for you,” the masked one, Hannya, surprised her by saying. “You don’t get to order us around.” 

The mad glint in Kanryu’s eyes flashed again. “Oh, is that so? You holier-than-thou spies only obey your Okashira, right? Fine then. Aoshi!” 

And then Megumi saw him in the doorway. She didn’t hear the door open or close. It was as if he had always been there, but still and silent. It was as if he had faded into the room this instant, and could fade out any moment. A tall man in a long white coat that swirled around him, and long bangs that fell into his eyes and hid they could tell her about him. Even then, she noticed he was young, probably just two or three years older than her, with cheekbones that could cut her hand if she reached out and… what was she thinking? Megumi blinked and came back to the present. 

“Command them!” Kanryu screeched, pointing a finger at him. “I command you to command them to hold that woman down while I punish her.” 

Aoshi looked up then, and she saw black eyes that revealed nothing. He just said one word. “No.” 

Kanryu looked almost deranged. “No? No? Must I remind you that the Oniwabanshu are in my employ? I pay you useless lot — and quite handsomely, mind you —” 

Aoshi stepped forward. It was a small step, but Kanryu stepped back and his hands went to the pistol at his waist. 

“You pay us,” Aoshi said without a shred of emotion, “To be your bodyguards and thugs. The Oniwabanshu may have fallen that far in this new age, but they haven’t fallen enough to be your pimps.” 

Kanryu’s face reddened alarmingly. “You — you brat! You dare speak like that to me?” 

He gazed around him wildly. There was no telling what he might do. Megumi saw the spies inching closer to their Okashira, ready to throw themselves between him and any threat that might materialise. Suddenly, an assistant of Kanryu’s ran up and offered something to him in a white handkerchief. Kanryu snatched it up and buried his face in it. They heard him snorting, and Megumi realised with a chill that it was some new drug that he had acquired. 

Slowly, he raised his face, and he looked calm. That was when Megumi began to be afraid. 

“So,” he cocked his head and observed Aoshi. “You think your contract with me is something that you can take up and abandon at your whim? You think you can just defy me and walk out? Well, let me ask you something, my dear Okashira,” he favoured Aoshi with a ghastly smile, “If you walk out now, where will you go? You and your four dear comrades. Even if you escape from this heavily armed compound without sustaining mortal injuries, I have enough pull to make sure these four never get a single day’s paid work again.” 

Something dark swirled in Aoshi’s eyes. 

“Okashira,” Shikijou murmured, his face showing the faintest signs of unease. “Don’t worry about us.” 

Aoshi seemed to have steeled himself. He stood there, unmoving. 

Kanryu chuckled again, softer this time. He seemed to believe he had won. “Well, well, Okashira. I believe you get my point. Now, will you command these four to hold down Takani Megumi?” 

“I will not.” The tall man said quietly. There was a storm in his eyes, and Megumi felt it swirl around her, even as she knew she was peripheral to it. 

Kanryu cocked his head again. “Really? So you’re okay with me ruining your comrade’s lives? After I put this woman in her place, of course. I don’t really need ninja spies for that.” 

The emotions swirling in Aoshi’s eyes seemed to come to rest. He turned his cold gaze on her, and she shivered. 

“I will not command them to sully their names thus,” he said evenly. 

“Okashira—” The murmur broke out from all four spies. Now they were standing, tensed, as if they anticipated his next words and wished to prevent them. Aoshi merely raised one hand to silence them. 

Then he crossed the room briskly until he stood in front of Megumi. Now she could see directly into his eyes. 

“Fine then,” Kanryu sat back on his desk and crossed his legs with deceptive calm. He nodded at one of his assistants, who threw something to Aoshi. He caught it out of the air without taking his eyes off her. 

Megumi’s heartbeat sped up again. She knew what was coming. She had borne this once before, early in her captivity. She began to tremble in spite of herself. 

“If you will not order your minions to aid me while I punish her, Okashira,” Kanryu said softly, “Then you do it yourself.” 

Megumi’s eyes were still locked on Aoshi’s, so she knew the exact moment something in them shifted. They suddenly became blank and lifeless. His free hand rose and then he brought it down across her face. 

Megumi fell across the room, tasting salt in her mouth. Before she could scramble up, she heard the swishing sound she had dreaded, and then the first terrible blow across her shoulder. She cried out in pain and humiliation. She raised her head slightly and froze. 

In the mirrored door of a cabinet in front of her was reflected the figure of Shinomori Aoshi, Okashira of the Oniwabanshu, holding a whip. His face was completely devoid of emotion, as if his consciousness had left his body. Then he raised the whip again and brought it down. Megumi cried out again. She never felt the third whiplash. The world darkened around her, and she embraced unconsciousness as she never had before. 

She woke up to find herself in her room, lying on her stomach. She was naked above the waist, but covered with a sheet. She hissed as pain lanced across her back. Memories flooded in, tearing up her eyes. She knew one of the Oniwabanshu was probably in there with her, but she didn’t care. She buried her face in her pillow and sobbed until she had no more tears. Then she wiped her eyes. She did a quick mental inventory of her body. Apart from the smarting cut on her lips and the marks of the whip on her back, she couldn’t feel anything amiss.

Megumi blinked back her tears. She knew she had to treat her wounds, but she was too exhausted to move. She grit her teeth, drawing more pain from her split lip, and pulled herself into a sitting position. 

“There is some salve on the table.” A quiet voice said from behind her. 

She spun around. Shinomori Aoshi stood in a corner of the room, staring out of the window. A sudden rage seized her and she caught the first object that came to her hand — the jar of salve — and hurled it straight at his head. 

He caught it one-handed, without even turning around. 

She was casting around for something else to throw when she realised two things — one, that she was half naked, with only her long hair covering her buxom breasts, and two, that someone must have been involved in getting her into this state of disarray, and she didn’t see Kanryu sending maids after her. 

Aoshi turned around then. As he walked towards her, she felt her heart pound again. Then he stopped in front of her and raised his face so that she saw his eyes uncurtained by his bangs. They were still and calm, but no longer blank. She wasn’t sure why, but somehow it reassured her. 

He held out the jar. “Here, take it. I applied some of it to your wounds a couple of hours earlier, but you’ll probably need to re-apply it.” 

Megumi could have pulled the sheet up to cover herself, but somehow that seemed like more of a vulnerable gesture than sitting still and allowing him to see her — and then Megumi realised that he actually was seeing her. His eyes were fixed on hers, and what he was seeing was not her flesh, or the wounds on that flesh, but the wounds in her soul. 

He still held the jar out. She shivered at the thought of him applying it to her wounds, of his slender fingers touching her skin. Suddenly, she pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts, not caring whether it looked like vulnerability. She looked away, face flaming. 

This was the man who had smashed his hand across her face just hours ago. The man who had whipped her mercilessly for Kanryu. He had no right to be holding out jars of salve to her, much less to actually apply salve to wounds he had put on her body. 

She felt a depression in the mattress behind her. Aoshi had disappeared from her field of view. Then she felt the gentle pressure of a hand moving across the scars on her back, applying salve, and she didn’t know if it was the medicine or his touch that burned her skin. 

She broke her silence only once — a slight groan as his fingers touched a particularly painful area, so slight it could have been mistaken for a moan. She heard his sharp intake of breath. And for the first and last time, Megumi knew the man behind her was vulnerable, that he has to make an effort to drag his fingers away from her. He had not touched her an inch more than necessary, but she knew it was a torture for him to relinquish that touch. 

Megumi dropped the sheet and turned around slowly. He was sitting there with one hand slightly extended, drops of salve still gleaming at the tips of his fingers. If she turned just a bit more, his fingers would be touching her breast. She stayed still. 

Aoshi’s breathing sped up, but he didn’t move. His fingers stayed frozen where they were. His eyes were wide. 

Megumi wasn’t sure her breathing was any more even than his. She wasn’t sure what she was doing. Seducing the Okashira, a voice inside her insisted. This is your chance. Just turn another few degrees and let his hand brush against your breast. Her heartbeat, however, betrayed something more than just the nervousness of trying to seduce a powerful ninja. 

Megumi leaned forward — and Aoshi disappeared. In a blink of her eyes, he was standing on the far side of the room, arms crossed. His bangs fell over his face, obscuring his eyes again. 

Then he looked up, and his eyes were calm again. “Try to sleep, Takani Megumi. You have a long day ahead of you.” He sank down into a chair, coat swirling around him, his eyes on her once more cool and professional. 

Megumi inhaled sharply. Then she deliberately turned away from him and lay down once again on her stomach. If she had been a warrior, she would have sensed the sudden relaxation of his muscles once her lovely swinging breasts were out of his sight. If the sight of the wounds he had inflicted on her caused him any trouble, he didn’t show it. 

Megumi didn’t expect to be able to sleep, with him sitting across the room, watching her. But he was Oniwabanshu first and foremost. After a while, she had to make an effort to remember that he was in the same room. Slowly, her eyes closed of their own accord. 

Just before she dropped off, she felt him kneel down close to her. 

The next day, she would be called once again into Kanryu’s room. She would go willingly enough, and when he told her to make the poison that would make him rich, she would oblige. Kanryu was overjoyed that his punishment had worked. He didn’t notice the blankness in her eyes as she ground and stirred the powders. He didn’t realise that the busy hands belonged to a person who was not present in her body. 

“When an onmitsu is caught,” a low voice had whispered as sleep washed over her senses, “she learns to separate herself from her body, to go far away from whatever is being done to her body. I learnt it at the age of ten. You would do well to learn it for the rest of your stay here.” 

Later, some day, she will remember those words, and she will remember the way his eyes had blanked out just before hitting her. Hers was not the only body that was abused that day. 

It doesn’t quell her fear of him, nor her hatred — not when she manages to flee the mansion and stumble into a run-down gambling house to find an unlikely protector, not the next time they meet and he presses a dagger into her hands to be her salvation, not even when he appears unexpectedly at the dojo she watches over for her friends. Her first reaction is always to shrink from him. 

But deep down, somewhere, is something else. Something twisted and mangled, but still alive. The taste of blood in her mouth mingles with the feel of his gentle fingers on her wounds. The soft rustle of his eyelashes against his cheek as his eyes flutter closed and his fingers freeze at that single groan wrung from her lips. Megumi hates herself for it, but her heartbeat always picks up at the memory of those fingers frozen less than an inch from her rosy flesh. 

Years later, when he is an ally and no longer an enemy, the fear will linger, as will a shadow of that twisted feeling. 

And one day, he will kneel down in front of her in a clinic in Aizu, bowing low for a long moment, as if to expiate all his sins, before he straightens and invites her to his wedding. By now, the fear has almost faded, as have the scars, and the darkness in her soul kissed away by a brash man with nothing, absolutely nothing dark inside him, despite his swearing and his penchant for getting into street fights, and the character for evil he wears proudly on his back. 

But that twisted feeling gives one last beat before it dies. And when he looks up, she can see the fear and the guilt and the pain in his eyes. And all she has to give him is a smile that almost, almost reaches her eyes. 

When she gives him and Misao her best wishes, she means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In no way do I condone violence of any kind in a relationship. This fic was born from my attempt to come to terms with the tendency to ship Aoshi and Megumi, despite the fact that he was her captor and source of much of her trauma. When I first read the manga, until Misao's character was introduced, I really shipped Aoshi and Megumi. They were both cold, had been swathed in darkness, and yet had so much light within. He seemed to really see her when he handed her that dagger to kill herself so as to escape from Kanryu's clutches. I've come to feel that Misao is indeed the right balance of laughter and light for his darkness. But what if there was a moment, when Megumi felt completely abandoned, and Aoshi felt he was too stained for Misao and almost gave in to a darker desire? 
> 
> Next story: Sanosuke and Kaoru! I promise, this one will be much lighter.


	2. The Longest Ten Minutes of His Life (Sanosuke and Kaoru)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanosuke tries to deal with his grief over having been left behind by Kenshin, when he goes off to Kyoto to fight Shishio. Then he remembers he's not the only one left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this story. Somehow, this is turning out to be my favourite.

When Kenshin goes off to Kyoto without him, Sanosuke spends the first two days and two nights getting drunk and getting into fights. Finally, on the evening of the third day, he swaggers into Kamiya dojo. He is still tipsy. 

Yahiko is off, helping at the Akabeko. Sanosuke leans his head against the open gate.  
“Jou-chan!” he cries from the gate, “I’m hungry.” 

There is no response from Kaoru. He lets himself in, weaving a bit. 

“Jou-chan?” He calls out again, slightly troubled. “Kaoru? Where are you?” 

He searches all over before he finds her in Kenshin’s room, curled into a foetal position on his futon. She isn’t sleeping, and she isn’t crying either, though her lashes are wet. She’s just blank. 

Sanosuke feels his heart clench, and his anger at his friend bubbles over. And at himself. He had been so selfish, thinking only of his own pain at being rejected by Kenshin — and that disgustingly smarmy policeman — as not being strong enough to support him. He hadn’t spared a thought for how it would break Kaoru. Yahiko seemed to be gaining a newfound determination to surpass his physical limits in the matter of training, even a drunk man could see it. But Kaoru — Kaoru had been so silent ever since Kenshin left. And Sanosuke had not been there for her. 

He looks at her still, silent form and curses himself inwardly. No wonder Kenshin hadn’t taken him along. He was barely mature enough to take care of his friends when they needed support. Of course, Kenshin would consider him too immature to trust with a sensitive mission. 

He sighs. Kaoru gives no sign of being aware of his presence. 

He kneels beside her. “C’mon, Jou-chan, I’m really hungry. Get up and feed me.” 

Her eyelids flutter and she blinks. 

“Jou-chan,” he calls again. 

Her eyes flit to him. “Sano…” she whispers. 

His heart warms up that she’s responding, but the vulnerability in her eyes crushes him. Kaoru had always been so loud and enthusiastic. She had always greeted him with an affectionate curse or with the business end of a shinai, abusing his appetite even while shovelling food into his plate, calling him a freeloader as she bought him lunch at the Akabeko. 

He crouches low and bends towards her. “C’mon, Jou-chan. Time to get up.” 

He extends his hands and waits, but she doesn’t take them. So he catches her hands nevertheless and pulls her up. She slumps over, and he catches her before she can hit the floor. 

For a moment, Sanosuke hesitates, holding this slight figure of a girl in his arms. Then he feels the moisture on his chest where her cheeks rest, and he stops thinking, and folds her into his embrace. 

Kaoru’s arms go around his body to clutch the symbol for evil on the back of his shirt. She begins to sob, first quietly, then with growing vehemence. 

Sanosuke can do nothing but watch. But he’s damned if he’s going to let her cry her heart out without trying to comfort her. 

He is uncomfortably aware of her cheeks and lips against his bare chest. No, not uncomfortably. That’s not the right word. Painfully aware. 

He had always known Kaoru was Kenshin’s, just as Kenshin was Kaoru’s — at least as much as he could be anyone’s at that point. He’d thought he only saw her as a wild little sister whom he could tease. His own estranged little sister was much younger than her, but had the same wild energy and bouts of tempestuous rage. 

But Kaoru wasn’t his sister. She was a girl on the cusp of womanhood, almost the same age as him. And he wasn’t blind not to have noticed it now and then. It was just one of those things you knew, and you filed it away in the deepest recesses of your mind. Because Kenshin… Sanosuke had complicated feelings for Kenshin, but loyalty was at the top. 

But right now, Kenshin is not there. Kenshin has abandoned both of them. And Kaoru is right there, in his arms. Sanosuke tightens his embrace and pulls her closer. He leans against the wall to be comfortable, spreads his legs and gathers her to him, then brings up his knees on either side as if to protect her from the world. 

He lets her hold onto him and cry. 

In between, if he strokes her back and kisses her hair, he convinces himself he’s just comforting her. If his fingers twine a bit deeply into her hair, if his pulse pounds faster, it’s just because he’s just as distraught as she is. 

As she quiets down a bit, he continues to stroke her hair and hum bits of nonsensical songs. He’s still kissing her hair and her temple. 

He wants to kiss her a little lower. On her eyelids. On the tip of her nose. At the corner of her lips. He doesn’t let himself think any further. He finds he needs to sink his fingers into his forearms. He wants to lean back and hit his head against the wall until he can knock some sense back into it, but he knows this will startle her. He sits still, cradling her close, torturing himself with the feel of her warmth. For another ten minutes, until her sobbing winds down. 

It’s the longest ten minutes of Sanosuke’s young life. 

And then he hears the soft sounds of snoring, and he relaxes. He pulls back to see Kaoru curled up in his arms, sleeping soundly. An ache fills his chest. He slowly lowers her down onto Kenshin’s mattress. The folds of her kimono have fallen apart a tiny bit. He pulls them closed, and then covers her with a blanket for good measure. 

Then he bends down. He means to press one last kiss onto her forehead, but changes direction at the last moment. His lips hover over hers. 

He can’t do it. He knows he can’t. But he still hovers there, torturing himself with the impossibility. 

He pulls back, leaving that kiss unkissed. If he were Kenshin, he guesssed, he would sit there while she slept, to ensure her well-being. But he’s not. He’s Sanosuke, and he’s all too human. He gets up gingerly without disturbing her, and moves to the kitchen. He finds some food that Yahiko had left, and eats like a starving man. 

Then he goes and sits on the front steps of the dojo and waits. Kaoru doesn’t wake up. When Yahiko comes home, Sanosuke passes on his sentry duty to the boy. Then he trudges slowly back to his lonely place in Ruffian Row… or tries to, until his feet intervene and take him to a certain doctor’s clinic. He knows she has no medicine for what ails him, so he settles for irritating her and breaking through her ice-cold demeanour. By the time he leaves, she’s almost smiling. 

Years pass, but Kaoru never mentions that day to him, and he’s not enough of an asshole to remind her of it. He thinks she’s forgotten. 

But when he finally comes back home after all his wanderings, and is greeted by Kenshin and his son, he thinks his grin will split his face and that his heart is full. And then Kaoru runs to him and throws her arms around him, her fingers clenching around the symbol of evil he still sports. And when she looks up at him and smiles that smile where the sunlight of her soul seems to break out through her eyes, he knows she remembers, and what he sees in her eyes is not judgement but gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't imagine Kaoru desiring anyone other than Kenshin, so I wrote this from Sanosuke's perspective. Strangely enough, I found myself beginning to really rediscover my liking for Sanosuke as I progressed. I was a bit sad that the live action films didn't do justice to him, treating him more as comic relief. Yet he's someone who is passionate and loyal, strong enough to survive his tragic background. I find his banter with Megumi fun, and his rivalry with Saitou is of course sizzling. I think I wanted to show him in a quieter moment here. I hope it feels in-character. 
> 
> Next story: Saito and Kenshin!!!


	3. Obsession (Saitou and Kenshin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the Battousai who used to make his pulse race. Himura Kenshin was a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical violence can be expected here in Saitou's flashbacks of the Bakumatsu. 
> 
> Set immediately following the defeat of Yukishiro Enishi.

After the Battousai collapsed into the arms of that tanuki-girl, Saitou Hajime lost sight of him for a while as the policemen swarmed over the island for the raid on Yukishiro Enishi’s mansion. He glimpsed Shinomori and Sagara supporting the Battousai as the tanuki-girl ran over to Yukishiro and placed something in his hands, just before his policemen bundled him off. And then Battousai was lifted onto another boat, and Saitou had to turn back to the job at hand. 

It took him quite a while to organise the search and classify the evidence. By the time he returned to the ship, the Battousai’s entire group was in the healing area and Yukishiro in a prison cell. Saitou paused outside the healing area. In one cabin, Shinomori and Sagara were already bandaged, and the doctor who so strongly resembled a kitsune was working on the little brat who seemed unconscious. No, Saitou reminded himself. Myoujin Yahiko. He could see quite clearly the fine swordsman he would grow up to be some day. Shinomori’s weasel-girl was flitting around, talking at the top of her voice and being annoying as usual, though Shinomori strangely enough didn’t look annoyed. Saitou supposed this was par for the course for Shinomori these days. 

In the second cabin, the Battousai lay unconscious on a futon while the tanuki-girl sat beside him, holding his hand. Saitou paused. 

She looked up and saw him. “Saitou-san?” She looked slightly flustered. 

He looked down at the Battousai. Though just a few years younger to Saitou himself, the Battousai’s body looked like an adolescent’s. Albeit one that had gone through severe physical abuse. But his face was clear and peaceful. For a moment, Saitou glimpsed that other face — a face so terribly young and soft, with eyes so infinitely cold and sharp — that he had seen only in dingy Kyoto alleys in the darkest hours of night, cold steel raining dark showers that gleamed in the moonlight. 

Saitou’s pulse sped up, as it did whenever he thought of the Battousai. Not the lean figure of the man lying before him, his ridiculous sakabatou bundled by his side like a child’s doll — no doubt that girl’s idea of comfort. Saitou’s blood always raced when he thought of that other figure — the adolescent with a child’s face and a killer’s eyes who had crossed swords with him again and again during the Bakumatsu. 

Something about that face had kept gnawing at his soul, sharpening his sword and his senses. Not just during the Bakumatsu, but after, when he had left his old name and identity behind. Saitou wasn’t sure how he knew, but he had known the Battousai was alive somewhere, that they would meet again and clash swords some day. 

But when he finally met the Battousai after ten years, he was disappointed. His old enemy had gone to ground so thoroughly — ensconced himself inside the persona of a rurouni — that Saitou’s pulse no longer raced when he faced him. That pulse race was the one thing he had lived for, apart from the justice of “Aku Soku Zan” that drove him. But justice was cold, and the Battousai’s rage had always been white-hot. Unlike the other hitokiris who killed for pleasure or money or routine, the Battousai killed in anguish, as if, with every stroke, he was cutting down himself as well as his victim. 

Saitou didn’t know which it was that made his pulse race all those bloody nights in Kyoto — the physical danger to his life presented by the Battousai’s sword, or that other danger of getting swept up in his anguish. 

When he met the red-haired man with a cross scar at the Kamiya dojo after ten years, Saitou determined to punish him with his sword until the Battousai surfaced. He would drag out the Battousai, kicking and screaming. And then he would have that duel with him. Even after they were interrupted, and later forced to work together against Shishio Makoto, Saitou kept a close watch on the man who pretended he was not the Battousai. He watched and waited, waited for that tell-tale throb in his blood that would signal the presence of the Battousai. Even when he lay spent, bleeding from both his legs, after being defeated by Shishio, he had held on to his consciousness so that he would see the Battousai rise again. Even after Shinomori and Sagara were flung aside like rag dolls, he had clung on, waiting, willing the Battousai to rise. 

When the slender form of the red-haired man finally stood up, staggering, his weight supported by his sword, Saitou had thought for one jubilant moment that it was his old adversary. But then it had spoken, and the voice and words that came out had been those of Himura Kenshin, the wanderer, the stranger. 

Now, the man lying on the futon in front of him let out a slight groan. The girl clutched his hands and bent over him, cooing something to him until his brow smoothed again. 

He made a disgusted noise and turned away, fishing in his pockets for a cigarette. Before he could light it, though, the kitsune doctor had started shouting at him for smoking in what she called her “clinic”. Saitou rolled his eyes and went back up to the deck. 

Leaning on the deck and taking a deep, much-needed drag of his cigarette, Saitou closed his eyes and let the past reclaim him. 

A night in the snowy forest. Torches. Steel gleaming in the starlight. He moved forward, sweeping down every Ishin Shishi who appeared before him. He didn’t bother using Gatotsu. Nobody here merited that sort of attention from him. Nobody but him. There, ahead of him, was a vortex of swirling swords and limbs and splashing dark liquid staining the falling snow. At the centre of the vortex, the boy with the red hair and the cross scar. Saitou’s slow amble concealed his speeding heartbeats. Finally… finally, he was about to cross blades with that elusive figure who invaded his dreams — or were they nightmares? — until he became an obsession. 

If there was a spring in his steps, a glint in his eyes, the slightest quirk of the lips from which a cigarette drooped, nobody noticed amid all the screaming. 

And now Saitou was close enough to see him. As he slashed and parried, the Battousai’s eyes were hidden by his red bangs. His victims lay in crumpled heaps around him in the dirt and the blood, but he himself was immaculate in his dark blue gi and grey hakama. To Saitou, he seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if he too were made of steel. 

Saitou’s steps paused of their own accord. The cigarette fell from his suddenly numb fingers. He couldn’t take his eyes off that magnificent figure. To everyone else, the Battousai was just a blur. But Saitou could follow him perfectly. Enemies rushed him, and Saitou sliced them apart automatically without letting the Battousai out of his sight. 

And then the last of the Battousai’s victims fell, and he whirled around one last time to freeze, facing Saitou. He shook his bangs out of his eyes, and Saitou saw the amber eyes look, really look, at him, register him. He saw no surprise in those eyes, no alarm, not even hatred. What he saw was a sort of quiet expectation. Another might have taken it for a welcome. 

Ever so slowly, savouring the moment, Saitou drew his sword and eased into the position for the first Gatotsu. The Battousai faced him for a long moment, then inclined his head in a slight nod, and sheathed his sword, keeping his hand on the hilt in preparation for Battoujutsu. 

It just struck Saitou how slender the boy’s fingers were, gripping his weapon. Not just his fingers, but his graceful arms, his lithe legs, the curve of his neck, the sharp collarbone at the opening of his gi. 

Saitou bent his legs and touched the edge of his blade with his right hand. 

His long eyelashes framing his amber eyes. 

The Battousai swivelled to the side, planting his legs far apart, leaning ever so slightly forward. 

His soft mouth now drawn into a hard line. 

And then they had exploded, both of them, at the same moment, flying towards each other as they had countless times in narrow alleys under the moonlight. It was a familiar dance, and yet each time felt like the first time to Saitou. The danger had never seemed so immediate as tonight, the proximity of death so intimate. 

They flew past each other, drawing, blocking, whirling, parrying, all in one smooth, fluid motion. Now Saitou was standing where the Battousai had been. He spun around. 

The younger man was standing stock-still, faced away from him. As Saitou watched, astounded, he had straightened, lowering his sword arm. 

“Do you hear that, Saitou Hajime?” His voice was low, but Saitou heard every word distinctly. 

The Battousai turned slightly, cocking his head. Saitou mirrored him. And then he heard it as well, first faintly, then rumbling like a tidal wave. Shouts of victory. 

The boy turned to face him. His features were relaxed. He was no longer radiating ken-ki. Saitou stood frozen in his stance for the second Gatotsu. 

The boy tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “The revolution is over. The new age is beginning.” 

Aku Soku Zan. Saitou repeated to himself. Don’t listen to him. Victory and defeat don’t matter. Aku Soku Zan. Slay evil immediately. That’s all I need to do. 

But he couldn’t move. He saw the faintest hint of a smile curving the boy’s lips. A breeze rustled his hair, blowing a few strands across his face. 

“Now I can rest,” the boy whispered — whether to his adversary, or to the moon, or to himself, Saitou couldn’t tell. 

Something was off. Saitou straightened as well. 

“Rest?” He said lightly, trying not to let the bitterness he felt seep into his voice. “Rest? For those such as you and me, what rest? We live by the sword. We will die by the sword.” 

“Do you really think so?” The boy opened his eyes and was gazing straight at him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed to glow a bright blue — or was it violet? For some reason, Saitou felt a prickle run across his limbs. 

“Raise your sword, Hitokiri Battousai,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely hoarse to himself. “The war may be over, but our fight isn’t.” 

“Hitokiri Battousai is dead.” The boy who stood before him seemed a stranger. He raised his sword, and for one delirious second, Saitou thought he was going to listen to him, to oblige. His pulse sped up. 

Then the boy buried the sword in the snowy ground between them. “Farewell, Captain of the Third Unit of the Shinsengumi, Saitou Hajime.” 

Then he turned and walked away, empty-handed. 

Saitou stood there for a long moment. If he had been another kind of man, he would have shouted at his enemy to come back, even chased after him. But he was Saitou Hajime. He didn’t move. 

A strong sea-breeze brought Saitou back to the present. He looked down to see that his cigarette had almost burnt down to the brand. Disgusted, he flicked it into the ocean. 

It was time to give up. Time to accept that his old friend, his old adversary, Hitokiri Battousai, the only person who could raise his hackles and his pulse rate, was gone forever. In his place was Himura Kenshin. The body was more or less the same — the long eyelashes, the soft mouth, the lithe limbs, the speed and agility. But the soul — Saitou Hajime pursed his lips. That was the only expression of disappointment he would allow himself. 

Days later, when Chou, lately of the Juppongatana, brought him a letter from Himura Kenshin, he knew even before opening it that it would be a challenge. Or rather, an answer to the challenge Saitou had raised all those years ago. 

That night, Saitou sat smoking at the window-sill of his office. It was cold inside, and it must be colder outside. He thought of Himura Kenshin, waiting in the field, in the cold. 

He took another drag of his cigarette. 

“Idiot," he said softly, and exhaled a ring of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last battle between Kenshin and Saitou in a snow-covered forest is largely inspired by the first scene of the first live action film. Maybe with a bit more Tarantino-style stylised blood-spurting. Just like with Sanosuke in the previous story, this really helped me get a better grasp of Saitou's character. 
> 
> Next story: I had every intention of putting up a story about Misao and Kenshin, but then this absolutely weird one about Aoshi learning the seedier aspects of being a spy just got stuck in my head and I had to write it. Turns out, even more unexpectedly, it's from Hannya's perspective.


	4. The Steel of His Soul (Hannya and Aoshi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aoshi wasn't always the ice man. Hannya remembers with a twinge his own part in teaching the teenage prodigy how to fashion a mask out of his own face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied sexual content. Perhaps I should tag an underaged warning as well, but then almost everything teenagers like Aoshi and Kenshin did during the war would fall under that tag. And they do say samurai were considered fully grown at fifteen, and yet my story is about how young that actually is, in a sense. I don't know. Please give me your suggestions.

It was Hannya who used to spar with Aoshi. He was supposed to train the younger boy in the art of stealth, but as time went by, Hannya realised that he was learning a lot from Aoshi. And not just kempo, though that was the first thing. 

He learnt a lot about Aoshi himself — the way the boy tried to school his features, and the little tics that betrayed his emotions. And it was Hannya who taught him to painstakingly erase each and every one of those tics until Aoshi had perfected the art of inexpressiveness. In later years, people who met him would consider him cold and impassive, but Hannya knew the passionate boy he had been once. He alone knew that passion still burned within Aoshi, and at what cost Aoshi had learnt to control his emotions. 

It was Hannya who taught him to navigate the streets and the rooftops, to fade into insignificance inside drinking holes and gambling houses. It was Hannya who poured him his first drink — and who rubbed his back and pushed his bangs back from his face as the boy vomited outside in the streets. 

“Never again,” Aoshi had rasped afterwards, his eyes flashing a warning, as if he suspected Hannya might be laughing at him from behind his mask. 

“Never again, Aoshi-sama,” Hannya promised. He proceeded to teach Aoshi how to pretend to be drinking several jugs of sake without taking a single sip. 

Likewise, it was Hannya who had taken the teenage Aoshi to a geisha, keenly aware of the latter’s discomfiture. 

“Is it really necessary?” Aoshi had asked, not looking at his companion, but not looking away either. He held himself as he did when he anticipated a gruelling sparring session with Okina. No, at least then, he would have a sparkle in his eye from the thirst to prove his mettle. Now, Hannya realised, he just looked like a nervous boy. 

“Yes,” Hannya had said gently. An onmitsu needed several talents, and this boy was slated to become the Okashira, if rumours were true. And Hannya only paid attention to those rumours that were true. 

Aoshi had not protested after that. His eyes had turned icy, and his mouth had thinned almost imperceptibly, but that was all. 

And later, when he heard the boy rinsing his mouth three times in a row, and when he noticed the inordinate amount of time he spent in the bath, and the redness on his skin that spoke of how mercilessly he had scrubbed himself, Hannya had not said anything. 

The first time Aoshi had to use that particular technique, he was fifteen, and he had clearly excelled at it, if the wealth of information he brought away from the oiran whom the Ishin Shishi leaders frequented was any indication. And again, it was Hannya alone who heard him dry-heaving into the bushes. This time, though, there was nothing he could do. Aoshi was no longer a child, and he would not be comforted by back rubs. By the time he came out onto the streets, his face was impassive again. Hannya knew better than to pretend ignorance. He and Aoshi walked back to their headquarters in silence. 

But when they were greeted at the entrance by a tiny, enthusiastic creature hell-bent on flinging herself at the legs of her Aoshi-sama — his knees were all she could reach at that point — only Hannya saw the slight widening of his eyes and caught up Misao in his own arms before she noticed the way the boy froze at her approach. And it was Hannya who carried her outside into the garden and played with her until Aoshi had controlled himself sufficiently to come out and listen to her chatter. 

After turning Misao over to one of her nurses, Hannya had returned to the garden where Aoshi sat stoically under the full moon. Only Hannya saw the struggle in his eyes. And Hannya, who had never before berated Aoshi, said, “What do you think she would have thought if you had pushed her away?” 

Aoshi exhaled. “I would never have —”

Hannya shook his head. “Not physically. I know you wouldn’t hurt her. But she can read rejection even at this age — especially at this age.” 

Aoshi had turned tortured eyes on him. “I couldn’t let her touch me — she’s too pure, too innocent, and I am stained.” 

Another man might have thought the boy was being melodramatic. But Hannya knew exactly what cost Aoshi had paid — was willing to keep on paying — for the Oniwabanshu. He knew this was more than about the taste that lingered in the boy’s mouth despite repeated rinsing, or the barest hint of stale fragrance in his hair. It was about an infinitesimal shade of corruption the boy felt begin to taint the steel of his soul. 

“You are doing what is necessary,” Hannya said. “Some might even say you are brave and strong for doing what you did tonight.” Aoshi scoffed quietly, but Hannya persisted. “An onmitsu plays many roles, Okashira. You know this. And the information you won today will save countless lives, and perhaps even turn the tide of the war.” 

Aoshi had nodded moodily and bowed his head, letting his bangs fall onto his forehead to cover his eyes. They sat like that for several minutes. Then Hannya said, “Do you know that she has seen my face?” 

Aoshi looked up at that, the movement so fluid that Hannya almost missed the several rapid blinks before the Okashira’s eyes turned clear. 

“And she still climbs on my lap and teases me and giggles to me,” said Hannya gently. 

Aoshi looked stunned for a moment. Then he said quietly, “That’s different. You are not stained. You just have — ” He caught himself and stopped. 

“A deformity,” Hannya said, trying not to let bitterness enter his tone. “You can say it, Okashira. It’s not like it’s a secret.” 

“A condition,” said Aoshi firmly, making Hannya smile behind his mask in spite of himself. “It’s not your fault.” 

“It’s not your fault either.” Hannya looked up at the night sky. “You shouldn’t withdraw from her. After all, if she’s so pure, do you think you can stain her so easily?” 

Aoshi didn’t reply. Hannya looked over at him. He was staring off into the distance, his eyes stormy, his mouth set. And then Aoshi closed his eyes and painfully willed his features back into peacefulness. 

It probably took just a few seconds, but to Hannya it felt like a long long time — long enough for him to learn the angles and planes of his Okashira’s face, long enough to locate the precise instant when sadness was swallowed up in a mask. Not the kind of clumsy mask Hannya wore, but the cold mask of a handsome young man whom nothing could faze. The kind of man who could walk through a field of corpses in cold blood, who would think nothing of killing, who would plan and execute the defence of Edo Castle in just a few months’ time, who would willingly step into the dirtiest quarters of Tokyo just so that his men could retain a sense of purpose. Who would smear his soul with filth to save theirs, and feel nothing. 

It would be a decade before Hannya sees that mask slip — and it is when Aoshi is kneeling on the floor of a decadent criminal’s mansion, his arms around Shikijou’s corpse, his eyes wildly wheeling towards Beshimi and Hyottoko as they were mowed down by a Gatling gun. 

It brings back memories of that night in the garden, and all the years fall away — all the cold commands and dubious contracts and tedious tasks he has issued, to be met with absolute obedience. For an instant, Aoshi is the young boy in the garden, whose eyes are wide with hurt at the knowledge that the world was a cold place where honour and success were mutually exclusive. Not as young and innocent as Misao, or as Hannya himself had been, before the horrors of the world had invaded his life and left a permanent mark on his skin. But younger than a soldier or spy should be, with a sort of desperate purity in his eyes. 

In that instant, Hannya wonders how far he himself had played a role in the tragedy that had befallen the only man he had truly loved, as a brother, as a companion, as a leader, and as so much more than that. 

But the instant passes, and Kanryu’s Gatling gun is still firing, and Beshimi and Hyottoko are on the ground. Aoshi is still frozen, and the infernal machine is swinging around towards him. Hannya knows he will not be fast enough to stop it, but he can be an effective distraction. If only Aoshi-sama would pull himself out of the shock and escape while he had a chance. But Aoshi himself is bleeding, and breathing painfully. 

A rustle, a soft tread, and he knows Himura the Battousai is beside him. The crackling of knuckles from the other side means Sagara Sanosuke is also there. 

Hannya doesn’t have to calculate the speed of the bullets, or the distance from the door where they stood to Kanryu, or to Aoshi, or… 

The Battousai’s sakabatou glints from the middle of the room. 

He looks up, and his eyes find the Battousai’s, calm but fierce. He wishes he had more time to get to know this man better. He wishes he had more time with the Okashira, with Misao, with everyone. 

“Save the Okashira,” he murmurs. 

And then he is running, and Aoshi screams his name, in pain, in frustration, in despair. And as the gun arcs towards him, he sees from the corner of his eyes Sagara running towards Kanryu from the other side, and the Battousai flashing past towards the sword that was their only hope. 

And then the bullets pepper him, and Aoshi screams again, and Hannya falls to the floor. Pain lances through all other senses. The thunder of the Gatling gun is deafening. He tries to hold on to his consciousness. He wants to see that face one last time, but he cannot move his head. He has so much to tell that young boy from the garden such a long time ago, but his blood pools in his mouth and chokes him. 

The last thing he sees is a flash of red hair and the glint of steel. And then the thunder of the gun cuts off, and then there is only silence and darkness and an absolute absence of pain. 

Hannya dies with a smile under his broken mask, knowing his Okashira is safe. 

When Aoshi buries their heads — not even he could have transported all their bodies in the confusion that followed — he lets the mask slip and falls to his knees to cry. He cries for all of them, his comrades, his men who followed where he led without a single question. But most of all for Hannya, for the man who had been friend and brother and companion as well as his most trusted aide, for the man who had taught him — among so many other things — to live and breathe in a mask, even when it seemed impossible. He cries for so many other things he could not put into words. Then, he raises his head. The moonlight falls on him, as it had done all those years ago in the garden with Hannya, and he has his mask on again. 

This time, he resolves the mask won’t slip. That’s the only tribute he has left for Hannya.


End file.
